


heaven's not too far away

by tempestaurora



Series: wayward sons [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Teen for language, a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 11:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17243615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestaurora/pseuds/tempestaurora
Summary: May Parker had died two weeks before.And now MJ's Aasimir Ranger was dead on the ground, in the middle of D&D combat. In Peter’s mind he could see her, the Morningstar embedded in her stomach, wings lifeless, bow and arrow at her side, forgotten.For a moment, the image was replaced with May. Corpse strewn across the road, the car speeding off into the distance; blood running down from her nose, eyes unseeing, staring into the sky above. He wondered what her last thought had been.Peter blinked and it was Finn again. A Dungeons and Dragons character. MJ. Not May.OR Peter moves on, somehow.





	heaven's not too far away

**Author's Note:**

> me: i'm gonna write a 4k fic  
> me: writes a 7k fic
> 
> apparently people are sad about the last fic, who knew. this fic is about peter moving on and stuff and there are little happy moments in between. the next fic i plan on being a happy fun fic again, with some iron sons shenanigans. but u might wanna understand, that this is the way the series is going: it's not all ridiculous crack fics, i wanna give y'all an actual story at the same time where there's EMOTIONS so if that's not your thing, it was nice having you goodbye.
> 
> SO! there's dnd in this one, and i received notes last time that no one knew what any of the terminology meant, so i've made an index in the end notes; so just scroll down and find it whenever you're confused.
> 
> the title is the same title as a v sad song by we three, u should listen to it. alright, enjoy!

“I don’t-” Peter swallowed, looking between his friends. “I don’t know what to do.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, staring at the wreckage in front of him. Bodies piled around blood-splattered streets. Ned’s hands were shaking, MJ’s pulling tightly on the draw strings of her hoodie.

Harley’s eyes were wide, desperate. “It’s okay,” he said. “Just—do whatever you need to.”

“I can’t!” Peter exclaimed. “I can’t save everyone—”

“It’s okay,” MJ interrupted, soft. “It’s okay. Just, save him.”

“What about you-”

She looked at the war-torn streets; the enemies still piling up ahead of them, the one that stood over her body. MJ nodded once, her head held high with courage. “Save him.”

Peter turned to Mr Stark, to his left, who’d been watching this with a keen gaze. “What’ll it be?”

“I’m going to use my wand to cast cure wounds at third level on Aerelm,” he announced.

Mr Stark nodded. “Alright, that’s your whole action, and you’ve run out of charges of that spell.”

“I know.”

Mr Stark leaned over the table, moving Harley’s Half Orc Fighter back to standing as Peter rolled a few d8s for healing.

 “Not bad, sixteen.”

“It’ll do,” Harley agreed, flipping his pencil over to the eraser end and rubbing out the big fat zero he’d scrawled on his character sheet. He erased the death saving throws while he was at it.

Mr Stark nodded. “Alright, with Cayde turning his attention to Aerelm, Finn’s been left wide open. The Cloud Giant, standing over Finn’s body, raises its Morningstar.”

“No, no, no,” Ned whispered.

MJ winced.

“It brings down its weapon in a smooth arc, slamming it into Finn’s unconscious body.”

MJ slumped forward in her seat, pressing her forehead against the table. One of the figures on the map wobbled and toppled into one of the dead bodies that were placed around the landscape to show the cost of the battle so far. Harley righted the figure with a frown.

“I’m dead,” MJ muttered into the table.

“Two fails on death saving throws when you’re already down,” Ned agreed.

MJ breathed out, slow, pained. “I’m dead.”

Peter placed a comforting hand on her back, grimacing as he looked back to the Finn figurine. The Aasimir was dead on the ground, in Peter’s mind he could see her, the Morningstar embedded in her stomach, wings lifeless, bow and arrow at her side, forgotten.

For a moment, the image was replaced with May. Corpse strewn across the road, the car speeding off into the distance; blood running down from her nose, eyes unseeing, staring into the sky above. He wondered what her last thought had been.

Peter blinked and it was Finn again. A Dungeons and Dragons character. MJ, who’d rolled her face until her cheek was pressed against the table top.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she replied. “It was me or Aerelm, and Aerelm’s the key to saving the universe.”

“We’ll avenge you,” Peter promised.

MJ smiled something sad. “You’ve been hanging out with Iron Man too much.”

 

*

 

Peter wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders, squeezed between Ned and Harley on the sofa, MJ on Harley’s other side. The four of them were a bundle of blankets and cushions, most of which ironically Iron-and-Spider-Man themed. On the television, _Brave_ played; rolling Scottish hillocks and a young woman with wild orange hair on horseback.

Peter didn’t see any of it.

He felt the familiar press of Ned’s arm against his, of Harley’s head on Peter’s shoulder; his knees pulled up to press against the tops of Peter’s thighs, feet most likely resting on MJ’s legs. But everything else; sounds, sights, smells, they were all secondary. Distant, difficult to grasp as Harley shifted, just slightly, and his dusty blonde hair brushed against Peter’s jaw.

He would’ve been floating if it weren’t for the weights of Ned and Harley. Would’ve floated all the way out of his body and above the city, New York nothing but a smudge beneath him, space and its endless stars and nebulas welcoming him with open arms.

Mr Stark hated space; hated what he’d seen on the other side of the wormhole. Hated the dangers of it, the emptiness. Peter was the opposite. Sometimes, he wanted nothing more than to explore it; to poke around Mars and Saturn, to bounce between planets and moons. He wanted to be a planet, be a star, burning up at extreme rates, be a black hole or a green dust cloud, an asteroid belt or a thousand pieces of broken satellite, spinning forever in the expanse.

There was a lot of space out there, and Peter was half way there from his spot on the sofa.

“Are you okay?” Harley whispered, pulling his head back from Peter’s shoulder. There was a crease between Harley’s brow, eyes filled with concern.

Peter blinked, nodded. Then Harley pulled up the corner of a blanket, draped across them. He swiped it across Peter’s cheek. Peter frowned and touched the other side of his face, feeling the dampness there. He hadn’t known he’d been crying.

 

*

 

May Parker had died two weeks before.

A car had hit her at a crosswalk, slamming into her side so forcefully that witnesses said she’d been thrown against the road and then run down. The car didn’t even stop. It just picked up the pace and speeded off into the unknown, a trail of blood in its wake.

May had been alive when the ambulance arrived – they had only been a block away from the hospital she worked in – and her baby pink scrubs were drenched in red when she stopped breathing. May Parker did not live to tell the tale of the hit and run.

She did not live to see Peter that night, waiting for her in their tiny apartment. She did not live to comfort him over his argument with Harley or live to see them make up. She did not live to see him graduate, get married, have children, get a degree, earn his license or save the world. She did not live to see dinner that night.

After the first night, Mr Stark and Pepper crying a few doors down, Harley tangled up in sheets, the curtains left open and shedding unwanted sunlight into his bedroom upon sunrise, Peter had stopped feeling present. He stopped feeling mostly altogether.

It was easier to float, to drift, to sit in class and frown at the numbers on the board until they resembled something entirely other. It was easier to have his friends pull him from class to class, have Happy guide him into the back seat of the car, have Mr Stark remind him to eat and Harley push Peter into bed each night. It was easier not to think, because whenever he thought, his mind inevitably jumped back to May.

And when he was drifting – well, he was just less likely to go there. Because when he was drifting, he wasn’t a part of it, of anything. He was gone, really. And Peter didn’t know where that part of him ended up, but it wasn’t anywhere near him, and that was what he wanted.

He’d spent the first week after May’s death off school, in his new home.

Peter, despite having once ( _recently_ ) wanting desperately to be a part of the Stark-Potts-Keener family and live in the penthouse of Stark Tower, hated being there.

It wasn’t them – no, Mr Stark and Pepper and Harley were doing their best. They were always there when he needed them, they didn’t question or confuse him, and they always brought him back if he was gone too long. It was the Tower, it was the penthouse, it was the room that was twice the size of his one back in Queens, was three times better decorated, was so far from the ground Peter couldn’t hear the traffic, let alone the people and the parties and the six AM fry up the neighbours made every weekend without fail.

It wasn’t Queens, it wasn’t his apartment, it wasn’t _home._

But it was where he lived now, and that was okay. Mostly. Because the four of them couldn’t fit in the Queens apartment, and Peter couldn’t imagine a world where he could face moving May’s things to provide the space to try.

What he hated, really, about the penthouse, when the chips were down and the cards were face up, staring at him and challenging him to lie, was the fact that May Parker had died after a week of Peter wishing he’d been a part of another family.

 _That’s_ what got him.

Because he could scream and cry and yell that he hadn’t meant it, any of it – but that would be a lie. He had.

He had wanted to move into the penthouse; he had wanted Mr Stark and Pepper Potts to be there when he woke up in the morning, to be a part of their family dinner nights and breakfasts at the table. He’d wanted to be there when they got home from work and decided to go out for walks, when Harley was getting extra time in the workshop and Colonel Rhodes would stop by to see them.

He’d wanted to fall asleep in the Tower at night and wake up to the Manhattan skyline. He’d wanted to leap from the top of the Tower to start every patrol, watch movies with Harley in the middle of the night, and not _want_ for anything more. Not _want_ for food or electricity or heating. Not worry about May sitting at the kitchen table and staring at the overdue bills. Not cut down on meals or wear more layers to keep as much money in his aunt’s pocket as possible.

Only, he’d wanted May to be there for it, too.

He’d wanted the five of them in the Tower, not the four of them and May buried in the ground.

At night, when Peter stopped drifting and started crying, Harley seemed to know, instinctually. Maybe he received an alert from FRIDAY, but it was just as likely that Harley was attuned to these things. Because every time, he’d slip into Peter’s room, dragging a blanket behind him, eyes practically closed with sleep, and flop down on the spare side of the bed.

Every time, he’d say, “It’s okay,” his voice heavy, and slip his fingers through the space between Peter’s leather friendship bracelet and his wrist.

And Peter would keep crying, but he would feel slightly better than before. Because at least he wasn’t crying alone.

 

*

 

Peter dragged his feet as he walked into Mr Stark’s lab. On Sunday mornings, it was anyone’s guess where he’d be; sometimes Tony Stark and Pepper Potts didn’t leave bed until noon, and other days they’d be up at the crack of dawn. Today, Pepper was out on a morning run with a few of her friends through Central Park, and Tony was in his lab, chair tilted back, feet propped up on his desk.

He looked over his shoulder at the sound of the door sliding open. “Hey, kid. How you feeling?”

Peter mumbled something inaudible and rolled a chair over to Mr Stark’s side. He quickly switched off the tablet in his hands as Peter slumped into sitting. “What are you doing?”

“Campaign stuff,” Mr Stark replied. “I was looking over Harley’s shoulder at the secret party group chat when Ned mentioned that he thought of a way to bring Finn back to life.” The secret party group chat was called The Scavengers because a) it sounded like Avengers, and b) the group had started off as scavengers in the plains of Doggorath before they landed themselves in a quest to save the mortal realm.

Peter couldn’t remember Ned’s idea or even looking at his phone for the last two weeks, but he nodded anyway. “Pretty sure that’s cheating.”

“Do you want a good, well thought-out campaign, or do you want me to improvise?” he asked. “Because improvising is how I got a terrorist to bomb my mansion in Malibu.”

Peter tried for a smile and he almost made it. He felt better when he was doing things with others; like playing D&D or swinging through New York with his friends jabbering in his ears. Mr Stark was good company, too; and Peter appreciated the conversation whether it was focused on Iron Man or if it was about the weather.

Mr Stark patted a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I had a few more web combination ideas. We can go over them if you feel like it?”

Peter had more than five hundred web combinations. Still, he nodded. It was better than being left in the silence.

 

*

 

Peter flipped down the street, high above the traffic; the red of his suit almost yellow with neon. Peter Parker may be spiralling, but Spiderman couldn’t afford to. There were still lives on the line. Lives like May’s. Lives that he had to save because no one else was going to do it.

(If Peter had gone patrolling instead of sitting in his apartment, would he have been there to save May? Would he have seen her, felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck, _known_ instinctually that she was going to get run down?)

“We go for reincarnation again,” Ned said in his left ear. In his right he could hear the horns blaring from the cars down below. “Like we did for me.”

“You’re a Gnome now,” MJ replied. “I don’t wanna be a Gnome.”

“There are other options,” Ned retorted. “That’s just the way Mr Stark rolled. All the base races are part of reincarnation.”

“There’s got to be a way that doesn’t involve me turning into a Hill Dwarf.”

“Listen,” Harley said, joining in now. “It’s either Reincarnation or Resurrection. Reincarnation’s our best bet because I doubt that temple has a level 13 Cleric or Bard just lying around.”

“What level’s Reincarnation?” MJ asked.

“It’s a 5th level spell, so level 9 Druid.”

MJ huffed. “Druid? We’re not going to find a Druid in the temple!”

Peter landed on the ledge of a building, his hands holding him in place. He cracked his neck one side and then the other; he’d muted Karen when he joined the group call, so with no one alerting him to new crimes, he had a chance to watch. He wanted to save people, but he didn’t think he would be able to when his hands were shaking; when his head was in the clouds, when there was nothing he wanted more than to go to his apartment in Queens and lie in his old bed again.

“Then it’s a level _13_ Cleric or Bard we’re after,” Harley replied, matter-of-factly, “if we want the Resurrection spell. There might be one at the temple, it _is_ the Sacred Temple of the Second Coming, after all.” Their quest was leading them to the temple, so Ned’s idea was to throw Finn over their shoulders like a sack of potatoes and heft her all the way up the mountain.

“That’s if we make it there in ten days,” Ned said.

“Easy,” Harley replied. “Our problem is getting through the obstacles with her.”

“Hold on,” MJ muttered. “I’m just reading the spell. You don’t need my whole body. Just chop off a hand or something and take that with you. It costs a thousand gold pieces, too.”

“Probably a donation to the church,” Harley said as Ned laughed.

“See? It’ll be a roll of the die for whatever race you come back as, but we can work on getting you back to Aasimir if it’s that big a deal.”

“Wasn’t it a big deal for you? Being a Gnome instead of a Goliath?”

“Well, sure, but that’s what I’m saying. Didn’t the hag of Blueberry Wood mention a wizard who could change form?”

“Yeah?” Harley asked. “What about it?”

“They probably have True Polymorph. Or maybe a wand of it? If it’s a wand we can steal it, totally. But if they have the spell, they can just _shape shift_ us back to normal.”

“That’s pretty cool,” MJ agreed. “Did that come before or after you turned into a Gnome?”

“Before,” Ned answered after a moment. Peter could hear the flicking of notebook pages, where Ned had been taking meticulous notes of the campaign. “It’s one of those plot hooks Mr Stark throws in so we can follow it later if we want to.”

“Peter mentioned that Tony saw the message you sent about getting one of the Clerics at the temple to bring Finn back,” Harley said. “Apparently he was writing something in the campaign? Like he was planning for it? Right, Peter?”

Peter didn’t reply. His eyes were trained on the intersection and had been for longer than he knew. He watched the cars roll past, one after another after another. The lights flickered red, amber, green and back again. On red, the cars rolled to a stop. Peter’s gaze didn’t leave the pedestrians that crossed the road, each of them making it safely to the other side before the cars started up again.

“Peter?”

Red, amber, green. A cyclist pedalled down the road, stuck their hand out to indicate them turning the corner, and made it safely out of Peter’s eye line. Amber, red. A mother and child crossed the road.

“Parker? Are you listening to me?”

“Did he mute us?” Ned asked.

“I don’t think so—no, it says he didn’t. He’s still there. Peter. Come on, dude.”

The cars drove in an orderly line, everything tinged with the orange-yellow glow of the street lights.

“Hey, Peter?” Harley’s voice was in his ear, louder than before. Peter’s eyes flashed red, amber, green. “Hey, dude, if you’re there, I’ve put us on a private channel. You’re—you’re just sitting there, dude. You haven’t moved in a while. Are you okay?”

Peter blinked. Was he okay? _Was he okay?_

“No,” Peter said.

“Okay,” Harley replied. “That’s okay. Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Alright. Do you know where you are?”

The cars drove single file. Each one was a different shade, though Peter didn’t catch them all. There were people on the sidewalks, carrying backpacks, purses, shopping. They strolled leisurely, some wearing headphones, other chatting with friends and family. The shop fronts were lit up in a bright white; late night take outs and laundromats as beacons, fluorescently glowing in the night.

“Peter. If you don’t respond to me I’ll get Tony to pick you up. Do you know where you are?”

Peter let out a breath, long and deep. “Yeah,” he said at last, as the location dawned on him. He looked back down the street and lowered himself down the wall, just a few floors. On the sidewalk directly below him, people hadn’t noticed his presence; a constant watchful eye over New York. “I know where I am.”

He came back to himself, not fully aware of where he’d been before. His body felt slightly weighted now he was back, and Peter crawled around the side of the building, where it faced the one next door. The lights in the opposite building were mostly off, though Peter would’ve been foolish even if they weren’t.

When he found the right window, he clawed his fingers beneath the frame and pulled it up. The window was old enough to budge with a little effort, and it shifted open with a slight squeak.

“How’d you know I wasn’t moving?” Peter asked, climbing through the window, keeping his movements quiet, though there wasn’t much of a point. He frowned. “Do you have my vitals or something?”

“Of course I have your vitals,” Harley replied. “After all those times you went out and got hurt and _didn’t call me_ I made Tony give me access to Karen, like he has.”

The two went quiet for a moment as Peter moved through the surroundings, painfully familiar. His bedroom hadn’t been entirely cleared out and moved over to the Tower yet, and so the shelves were still lined with Lego display models and books. The clutter on the floor had been pushed to the sides, most likely by an unamused Happy who had rummaged through his wardrobe and moved the clothes into a bag.

Peter drew the blind and switched on the light, a yellow glow that made him blink. From the door, he could see the beds, unmade, the dog-eared books beneath the bed, his old lightsaber leant against the wall.

“Did you mean to end up there?” Harley asked, quiet. MJ and Ned had gone silent a long time ago – maybe Harley had hung up on them, or maybe they were muted and waiting for Peter to return to himself before he returned to them.

“No,” Peter answered. “I didn’t.”

 

*

 

He woke up in May’s bed, though he could’ve sworn he went to sleep in his own.

He hadn’t closed the curtains in her room, so it was much like the day after her death, when there was too much sunlight beaming too bright into the room. Peter winced and rolled over, away from the window, pressing his face into his pillow. It still smelt like May; like the perfume that Ben used to buy her every year on her birthday and Peter had continued to do so after his death.

He was still wearing his Spiderman suit, and a look at the clock on the wall above the dresser told him he was two hours late for school. Peter climbed out of bed, padding into the living room where his mask was sitting on the back of the sofa.

He pulled it on and unmuted Karen.

“Good morning, Peter.”

“Hey, Karen. Do I have any messages?”

“Yes, would you like to listen to them?”

“Yeah, please.”

He rolled the mask up above his nose, so he could listen while grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen. The only food left in the apartment was in the cupboards; rice, pasta, a can of beans that he’d never seen before.

“Hey, kid,” Mr Stark’s voice said. A note on the display told him that the voicemail had come in a little before midnight. “Harley told me that you might be crashing at your old place, so I’m just calling to say goodnight… So, yeah. I – uh, I know things have been hard since, since, you know, but well, we’re all here for you, whenever you need us. We care about you, Peter, so if you need to talk or yell or—or something, we’re here. I’m here, okay? Cool. Uh, night, kid. Sleep well.”

There was a pause, then the next message played, from only five minutes later.

“Hi, Peter,” Pepper said, light. “I don’t know if you’ll get this until tomorrow morning, but there’s no heating to the apartment, and the hot water’s turned off. I think the freezer is, too, though I don’t know why you’d need that. I finished the laundry last time I was there, so there’s a stack of blankets in the airing cupboard if you get cold. I’ll see you tomorrow. Night, honey.”

Pepper had called Peter _sweetie_ the day after May’s death, and the responding break down had cut off that pet name from her entire vocabulary. He liked _honey,_ though, in the same way he’d liked _sweetie;_ almost begrudgingly but knowing that it was said with a parental type of love.

Peter had always been grasping for that type of love. It was as if there had never been enough to go around.

“I’m assuming you’re not coming to school today,” Harley said, the final message playing. Peter refilled his glass and drained it in one swallow. “I mean, school starts in like a minute and a half, so I’m pretty sure. MJ’s got like three pages in her notebook dedicated to her new character, in case we can’t get Finn back. She’s thinking Tabaxi – you know, that talking cat species? Like uh,” Peter could hear the sound of Harley clicking his fingers as he searched for the word, “what’s that tiger karate lady in _Kung Fu Panda?_ ”

“Tigress,” Ned’s voice supplied.

“Oh, shit, yeah. Angelina Jolie.”

“Seriously? I didn’t know she was in the movie.”

“Yeah,” Harley said. “Angelina Jolie, Jack Black, Lucy Liu, Dustin Hoffman, Jackie Chan – this was an all-star cast for a movie about a giant panda learning martial arts. Anyway. Get some rest, okay? Or, like, take it easy. Just don’t—don’t go to that weird place in your head while no one’s around. The one where you’re out of it. And call me if you need to. I’ll pick up, even if it’s Mr Brookers class. I’ll let him confiscate my phone and everything.”

“Man, that’s friendship,” Ned muttered.

The message cut out at the sound of Harley’s laugh.

With no more messages, Peter pulled off the mask. He methodically washed the glass, dried it and returned it to the cupboard. Then he stood in May’s bedroom doorway for all of thirty seconds, keeping his mind as focused on the present as possible. It still smelled like her, looked as untouched as it had before, with exception of the bed he’d slept in. It could be like any moment she’d bump him out of the way with her hip and pluck a pair of earrings from the bowl on her dresser. She’d brush her hair and search for clean scrubs, wonder aloud why there was cat hair everywhere when they didn’t own a cat (the answer to that was Mrs Shawl’s cat, two floors up, liked to plod around May’s room if the window was left open, but she always darted back outside at the sound of footsteps).

But the room was empty and silent, as was the rest of the apartment.

Peter moved into his bedroom, found a backpack that hadn’t been brought to the Tower, and packed it with a few of his possessions he’d missed. A few books, his lightsaber (it popped into place or could be stacked together to become travel sized), a photo of May and Ben on their wedding day, that polaroid of the three of them in some now-defunct diner down town.

When he was done, Peter left via his bedroom window. He spoke aloud the whole time, narrating himself choosing what he wanted, pulling his mask back on and wondering where Mrs Shawl’s cat was hanging out these days.

The least he could do, Peter figured, was do what Harley asked.

Until he was with other people, he wouldn’t start drifting. Not until there was someone around to pull him out of it again.

 

*

 

It was Pepper who pulled him out when he ended up in the living room, staring at the polaroid photo of he, May and Ben. He couldn’t have been older than ten in the photo, a cheesy grin on his face. He couldn’t remember the day nor the photo being taken, but he wished he could. He wished he could recite their meals and their conversational topics. He wished he knew who took the photo.

Pepper placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers rubbing gently against the muscle there.

“Come back,” she said, quiet.

Peter looked over to her and she smiled something soft.

“There you are.”

 

*

 

The week rolled on like it did whether people were dying or not.

May’s funeral had been the week before; a short affair on a bright, sunny day. The church was packed with medical staff and May’s friends; her Italian cousins and all their children filling the pews of the one tiny church May had ever attended in her life. Peter had sat in the front row, and when one of May’s relatives had asked if he would be sitting there alone, Harley had interrupted, “Of course not,” and taken a place beside Peter. Tony and Pepper had taken their seats on his other side, and Peter had spent half the funeral missing May terribly and deeply and the other half thinking about _family dinner night_ and how he didn’t mean to will this into being.

For the eulogy, Peter had read out the only paragraph he’d been able to write from the crumpled piece of paper he’d been carrying for three days straight. In his head, there was a lot more to say: _I’m sorry I broke your favourite vase when I was twelve. Did you actually enjoy the Indiana Jones movies or did you only tell Ben you did because they were his favourites? Thank you for treating me like your son._

At the wake, Peter and Harley stuck together like glue, as if their argument had never happened, as if there wasn’t even a moment where they were at odds. One entity, two bodies.

So time carried on despite May Parker’s absence and Peter went to school and pretended he was listening, even if he wasn’t, and sometimes he would be there and sometimes his mind would be lightyears away, trying to become one with the atoms of a decaying star.

Then his floating got him hurt.

In the hall, he tripped over Flash Thompson’s backpack, wiping out across the linoleum floor and brutally snapping back into reality. Harley’s hand had been on his arm, guiding him to their next class, but they were apart and Peter was awake and he was struck with the thought of _what would May say if she knew where you were right now?_

What would May say if she was aware that he was face down on the hallway floor, the students silent in the split second before the laughter began, all because he felt better when his mind was separate from his body, when it was unable to think about her corpse on the road a block away from the hospital?

He didn’t know, honestly, but it didn’t matter.

He was avoiding thinking about his aunt, and that was the last thing he should’ve been doing, really. Because now she was dead, the only way May lived on was when people thought about her.

Harley pulled him back to his feet, spitting something over his shoulder about not leaving _shit on the floor, Flash._

“You okay?”

Peter nodded, checking the skin of his palms. It was a little red, but nothing that wouldn’t disappear within the hour. “Do you think it was my fault?”

“That you wiped out? I’d say like, 20/80 in Flash’s favour,” he replied. “Possibly a little bit of blame on me for—”

“No, I mean, May.”

Harley frowned. “You didn’t kill her.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Do you think it was my fault that I wasn’t there to save her? And that—I put that thought out into the universe?”

Harley sighed, tugging Peter to the side of the hallway, against the identical rows of lockers. “You didn’t ask the universe to kill May.”

“Not in those words—”

“Not in _any_ words. You didn’t, Peter. And sure, you weren’t there to pull her out of the road, but you know what else? The people who _were_ there didn’t save her either.”

“But they’re not like me,” Peter said, lower. “They couldn’t—”

“You don’t know what they were like,” Harley replied. “They could’ve been mutants, inhumans, the lot of them. But you know what? There are people out there more powerful than you and I and _they_ weren’t there, either. Where was Captain America, Peter? Why didn’t he save May? Or the X Men? Or Thor? Or Vision? Do you blame them for not saving her?”

“No, they weren’t there—”

“ _Exactly_. And neither were you. That’s not your fault. And you didn’t wish this into being or call upon any higher power and ask for it, okay?” The bell rang, and students began filing into classrooms. Peter inched away from Harley, but Harley tugged him back. Peter couldn’t remember a time Harley had looked this kind of serious. Not worried or concerned; not volatile and angry – serious. “It was a shitty argument, Peter, not you begging the universe to be orphaned again. There’s no blame on your shoulders, here.”

“I wanted to—to live in the Tower, like you do,” Peter whispered. “And have the kind of life you have with Mr Stark, and—”

“Peter Parker, you moron, half the kids _in the world_ want to live in Stark Tower!” Harley exclaimed. “They want to have what I have! What _we_ have! What you had before you moved in, what you have now – because that’s desirable, Parker. That’s a good existence. That’s the dream; living with a superhero. It doesn’t make you a bad person for wanting it and it doesn’t make you a bad person for getting it, even at a cost. God…” Harley trailed off, glancing up and down the hall. “You know how many times I wanted what you had?” Peter blinked. “May reminds—reminded me so much of Mom. The dinners at your place, how small everything was there, trying to fit all three of us in the kitchen when it’s not made for even two – it reminds me of home, Peter. We even have the same tiling in the bathroom.” Harley shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you know that you’re not at fault here – and more importantly, that May would never think you’re at fault here.”

Peter reached for some form of smile. “I noticed the we had the same bathroom tiles when we went to Rose Hill. I thought it was lame if I brought it up.”

Harley let out a laugh. “It _is_ lame, Parker.” He tugged Peter in for a hug; a Harley special, no longer than two seconds with one pat on the shoulder blade for good measure.

“We’re late for class,” Peter said when they pulled apart.

Harley shrugged. “It’s last class of the day. Let’s go.”

“We can’t skip class—”

“Sure, we can,” Harley said with a smile like danger. There was a feral Harley Keener beneath the other brands of himself. “You wanna get burgers? I finally got Tony to give me an allowance.” Harley pulled on Peter’s arm to drag him through the corridor, towards the exit. “He’s never been poor so he doesn’t know how much allowances are these days. He gave me four hundred bucks in bills and said I could keep the change if I bought him a tuna sandwich.”

 

*

 

**HAS TONY STARK ADOPTED ONE OF THE IRON SONS?**

_While the names Harley Keener and Peter Parker have become household after they were revealed as Tony Stark’s teenage personal interns, it’s possible that at least one of those names will soon be changing._

_An anonymous source has revealed that Tony Stark, known as Iron Man and the owner of the Fortune 500 company, Stark Industries, has filed for temporary guardianship of Peter Parker, after his aunt – and sole carer’s – unfortunate demise two weeks ago. After a hit and run, May Parker, a nurse in the maternity ward of Mount Sinai Queens Hospital, died upon reaching the hospital. Witnesses from Mount Sinai claim that Tony Stark and Pepper Potts were both on the premises and left with Mr Parker._

_His claim for temporary guardianship was approved the next day, however it is unconfirmed whether it is still in place, or if a permanent guardianship has been obtained. Though, with no immediate relatives left, it is believed that Mr Parker will be staying under Tony Stark’s care for the foreseeable future, and it is likely, with the engagement to Pepper Potts and recent interviews stating Tony Stark’s new interest in family, especially with the media-named ‘Iron Sons’, that adoption may be imminent, if it hasn’t already been placed on the table._

_Stark’s other ‘Iron Son’, Harley Keener, currently lives in Stark Tower with a temporary guardianship, so he could attend school in New York. Sources indicate that his mother and sibling are still alive in Tennessee, where Keener grew up._

*

 

“It was gonna happen eventually,” Harley pointed out, reading the article over Mr Stark’s shoulder. Harley was draped across the back of the sofa, Pepper and Tony on the cushions and Peter sitting by their feet on the floor. He was staring intently at a Rubik’s cube that he’d found in his old bedroom a few days previous.

“Sure, but it _shouldn’t_ ,” Mr Stark grumbled. “He’s a minor, there should be tighter security on information like this.”

“ _Are_ you adopting him?” Harley asked, ignoring Mr Stark’s comment.

The room went silent and Peter had to force his hands to continue working on the Rubik’s cube.

Eventually, Mr Stark said, “I don’t know how that concerns you in the slightest,” and Harley scoffed.

He rolled off the back of the sofa, saying, “Whatever,” and kicking up his skateboard he’d left in the middle of the floor. Harley vanished from the room a moment later to cause problems elsewhere.

Peter forced himself not to drift and focus on the Rubik’s cube at hand. May _deserved_ to be thought about, even if it was hard. Even if he kept picturing how she might’ve gone, the look on the nurse’s face who’d greeted him in the hospital, the beige wall he’d stared at as he cried. She _deserved_ to be remembered: her less-than-optimal cooking, the way she made extra dinner for Harley without complaint, how she’d supported his decision to join band despite only knowing how to play the triangle.

(“Ned’s in band, so I joined band.”

“You don’t know how to play an instrument, sweetie.”

“Miss Acre gave me the triangle. I’m Midtown Band’s official triangle player.”

May had grinned so widely and broken out into laughter. “Oh, you’re going to be the star of the show, Peter.”)

“Peter,” Pepper said, breaking the silence. He looked up and over his shoulder, to where she watched him with a titled head and thoughtful expression. “Temporary guardianship lasts for sixty days, though we can extend it to six months if we appeal to a court. But you still won’t be an adult by the end of that.” Peter nodded once. “The options here are limited. There’s emancipation, asking one of May’s relatives to take you in, foster care, possibly leading to adoption, but possibly not,” she counted them off on her fingers, “or us.”

He blinked. She didn’t break her gaze.

Mr Stark shifted in his seat. “The choice is up to you,” he said, “and we’ll support you, no matter what you decide.”

Peter was the first one to look away. He twisted the Rubik’s cube a few times, using his thumb to direct the squares the other way. “If I stayed with you… what- what happens?”

“We’d adopt you,” Pepper said simply. “You’d legally be under our care, and our—”

“Son,” he interrupted.

“Yes. But that’s your choice. If you don’t want that, then we figure something else out.”

Peter flicked at the squares until they lined up, colour by colour by colour.

He placed the completed Rubik’s cube on the coffee table.

“I’m keeping my last name,” he said.

“Of course,” Pepper replied.

Peter nodded once and stood. “I’d rather stay here, then.”

“You got it,” Mr Stark said. “We’ll get the paperwork drawn up.”

Peter only stayed for a moment longer, before turning and leaving by the same route Harley had gone. It didn’t take long to find him, a few floors down and skateboarding through the empty corridors. In all the time Peter had known Harley, Harley had never done anything on the skateboard other than go forward – Peter wondered if he knew how to.

“Hey,” Harley said, rolling to a stop. He kept both feet on the board and wiggled it side to side, stopping and starting. It rolled a groove in the carpet. “What’d they say?”

“They’re adopting me,” Peter said.

Harley nodded, then cracked a smile. “I think I finally figured out the coding to get one of the Iron Man suits to respond to me. Wanna race to the Empire State Building?”

Peter snorted. “You’re on.”

 

*

 

They had D&D on Saturday, though usually they wouldn’t have it for another week. But it was just known that they needed something to think about that wasn’t death and adoption and how Peter looked one second like he might break and the next like he might break _something_.

He’d be okay, he knew logically. Things would get better and the cold spot in his chest would thaw, and maybe he’d even be happy in the Stark-Potts-Keener-Parker family that lived in Stark Tower.

He’d be okay, and some days he wouldn’t, and that was just part of life now.

So they chopped off Finn’s hand and placed it in a Bag of Colding – a satchel similar to the Bag of Holding, but one that wouldn’t let the meat rot. MJ sat at her spot in the table, her Tabaxi Monk on standby as Aerelm, Cayde and Bjork travelled up the mountain-side in search of the Sacred Temple of the Second Coming.

And when they arrived, they begged the priests to bring Finn back.

There were no Druids in sight for Reincarnation, but there was a Cleric, and they just had to hope she was a high enough level to cast the Resurrection spell.

The Cleric was the head acolyte of the temple, a pale elven woman with white-blonde hair called Adalia, and she lead them through to a circular chamber, a granite slab free-standing in the centre of the room. She laid Finn’s severed hand on the table and called upon her deity to bring Finn back to life.

“Out of the floor,” Mr Stark said, “silver tendrils of magic energy curl up the slab and around the hand, tightening and twisting over one another. Adalia’s eyes and the runic tattoos across her body glow the same silver, and a breeze enters from the skylight, whipping your hair and robes about.” He shifted something behind the DM screen. “This is a ritual spell, so you’re each going to need to give something to it, to bring her back.”

Ned had warned them about this, and the three of them nodded, prepared.

Bjork presented the feather of a raven that he’d carried with him since the beginning of the campaign, a symbol of the Raven Queen – the goddess that had slaughtered his family. “For her wings,” Ned said, “so she may fly again when she returns.”

Mr Stark rolled a dice behind the screen and looked to Harley.

Aerelm slipped the magical ring of protection from his finger, placing it beside the feather on the slab, the tendrils grasping it and pulling it into the spell being cast. “To keep her safe when she comes back,” he said.

A dice clattered behind the DM screen, and Mr Stark nodded at Peter.

Cayde presented his hands to the slab, Peter imitating the action at the table. They glowed yellow, the colour of his patron goddess, Ilmater. “I call upon my goddess,” Peter said, “goddess of life and endurance. She once gave to me the power to keep going, to persevere, and now I give it to Finnia, as well. I ask Ilmater to bless Finn like she has blessed me.”

Mr Stark rolled the dice and described how the items were swallowed by magic, how the silver tendrils glowed yellow as Ilmater’s power swept through Adalia’s magic. Then the tendrils changed shape, moving out from the hand and creating arms, a torso, legs, a head, and a pair of wings.

When they finally receded, the figure beneath glowed silver, before returning to their natural hue. Finnia blinked her eyes open, the irises a golden yellow rather than their previous blue, her wings now black like a raven’s, rather than the dove white they were before.

She sat up. Beside Peter, MJ smiled.

“Am I…?”

“You’re alive,” Peter said. “You’re alive.”

“I’m alive.”

“And you’re AC goes up by a point,” Mr Stark agreed, “because a magical ring of protection seems to live within you now.”

MJ and Harley bumped fists. “Thanks, guys,” she said, sweeping her Tabaxi Monk character sheet off the table. “Thanks for bringing me back.”

 

*

 

He didn’t cry that night, lying in bed, but Harley still pushed the door open anyway and flopped into the empty space beside Peter.

“It’s okay,” he whispered by reflex, eyes already closed.

“It is,” Peter said in reply.

Harley’s fingers hooked through Peter’s friendship bracelet, warm against the skin of Peter’s wrist.

“Tony banned me from the lab for a week,” Harley murmured.

“For breaking the Iron Man suit?”

“No, I think it’s because I didn’t eat my broccoli at dinner.”

Peter laughed and pressed his cheek into the pillow. Harley was an outline in the dark, barely visible beneath the sheets. That afternoon, Mr Stark had confirmed that the endurance that Ilmater had blessed Cayde with still remained, despite giving some of it to Finn. He’d also, said, with a pointed look, that Peter Parker had more of that perseverance than Cayde Tempest would ever have.

And Peter’s hadn’t been gifted by a god; he’d built it up all himself.

In the dark, Harley shifted. “You gonna be okay, dude?”

Peter hummed and shut his eyes. “Yeah,” he replied. “I think so.”

**Author's Note:**

> D&D INDEX:  
> Cure Wounds is a healing spell, casting it at third level means it's more powerful, and can heal more damage. Peter uses a Wand of Cure Wounds as he doesn't have the spell as a Warlock.  
> D8 = an 8-sided die  
> A Death Saving Throw: upon falling unconscious (reaching 0hp), a player rolls a d20 on their turn in combat, to determine whether they live or die. They must roll an 11 or higher three times to live. If they fail three times, they die. If you're hit while unconscious, it counts as two failed death saving throws. (This may differ between DMs, if you do one DST that's your call, me and my DMs do two.)  
> A Bag of Holding: basically its a bag that can hold almost anything. Remember Hermione's bag in Harry Potter? It's like that. If you can fit it through the mouth of the bag, you can carry it in there. A Bag of Colding was made up for Critical Role (a D&D show), where it does the same thing but just doesn't let meat rot, which it would normally in a Bag of Holding.  
> Tony rolling dice between each ritual gift: this is because there's a challenge rating on each roll: how high he needs to roll to succeed. If he succeeds, the challenge number lowers, likewise if the ritual gift is well thought out. If they just threw anything in there as a gift, it might not work at all. If the rolls failed, Finn wouldn't have come back to life.  
> Reincarnation spells brings you back to life but as a different race, Resurrection spells bring you back just the same, but it's a harder spell to complete.
> 
> If there's anything d&d related u don't understand, just ask!
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm hoping to get a new fic out sometime this week, and it'll probably be much happier than this one lmao. Happy New Year!


End file.
